Xbox Xmas

image borrowed from bing

Xbox Xmas

Christmas Eve, 2007, and my youngest daughters arrived

ready to cook for the old man, then play some canasta

and phone their mother who happened to be visiting

our oldest daughter nesting in Baltimore, and the two

grandsons; one brand new, one not.

My girls

           stayed until

                            i was exhausted

                                         hoping to help

                                                 me    

                                                 forget 

           that after all I was home alone.

Christmas dawned cold, wet, and gray,

another yule tide in the northwest,

but I was joining dear friends

for their family breakfast;

mounds of butter-fried French toast

flipped about in huge black pans,

with a marzipan eye on each piece,

smothered in apricot syrup,

accompanied with spicy sausage, 

thick bacon and fresh fat eggs.

I was the stepchild at the table,

yet still we laughed, burped

and farted warmly, surrounded

by fir sprigs, red ribbons, bright bulbs,

and Santa’s elven figurines, 

serenaded by the dead carolers, 

Bing, Perry, Dean and Doris;

when something moving outside,

something fluffy and falling

caught our eye, yes, yes,

it was snowing,

fat pointy flakes of purest white,

first a few squads

                            then battalions

                            then whole armies

jackslamming the sky--snow,

holy Christ, snow, the whole of Puget Sound

turning white on Christmas day;

but then as I drove off the blizzard

was reduced to a flurry, becoming

snain or raow, just overweight overwrought

drops slapping my windshield and the pavement,

smack

         smack

                  smack

                           like slapping the bad dog

with the rolled up newspaper,

arriving home to just drizzle,

the alley’s potholes puddled up to greet me.

Much later awakening from a nap in my recliner,

the television screen splashed with holiday anime,

I realized that I was hungry

and my foraging of the cupboards, fridge and freezer

did not reveal that festive sustenance I craved;

finding myself in my vehicle 

roaming the wetness,

driving in senseless circles, biting my lip, 

staring into an infinity of decorated windows,

faced with empty streets, escalating darkness,

and posted on the premises I drove by, 

the message was clarion, impersonal, cruel;

“Closed for Christmas”.

But then, thank you Jesus, my solo crusade

garnered gold as I saw the sign, Denny’s,

and it was open, brightly lit, welcoming;

swinging into the place 

I parked in the last open spot,

and pushing open the door

I was greeted by a whoosh 

of warm air laden with happy voices

and a young greeter who said,

“Merry Christmas, welcome to Denny’s.”

She seated me in my booth

and presented me with the one page menu,

a spartan ten choices of “holiday specials”.

I ordered the meat loaf, home fries, and apple sauce

with a strong cup of cafe coffee,

drumming my fingers on the plastic table top,

interrupted, nearly overwhelmed by

sadness, 

like a silent sob, 

a throbbing stabbing ache

rising up from my innards,

uninvited.

The imp behind my left ear asked,

“What kind of losers come to Denny’s

for their Christmas dinner?”;

looking around I saw all kinds,

entire families, truck drivers, junkies,

street people, whores, and three old ladies,

and for a moment they were

all staring at  me

staring at them.

Dipshit, 

I heard myself mutter

as the feast arrived

and I rolled up my sleeves

and consumed the meal

as if it were the finest prime rib

served on silver platters

by ten naked dancing girls.

Driving home, listening to a religious choir

I began to recall the events I read about

in the morning’s newspaper,

reflecting on the holiday choices

we had all made that day:

23 dead from a car bomb in Baghdad,

15 dead from a suicide bomber in Bombay,

and all the deployed armed forces of the

American Empire of the United States

were fed a special meal,

30,000 frozen turkeys 

and a ton of cranberry sauce,

and this god damned All American

City of Tacoma had counted up

800 homeless souls who had crowded

into the city’s flophouses and missions

on Christmas Eve.

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics

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